Fashion Sensibility
by CLS
Summary: Hermione goes shopping and gets more than she bargained for: A twisted tale of revenge and revelation. Some may find it disturbing. Rated R for sexual themes and content.
1. Fashion

Fashion Sensibiliy   
  


**Fashion Sensibility**

  
  


**(Rated R for sexual content and themes  
which will become apparent in Part 2.)**

Part 1. Fashion

  
  


"Here, Miss. Let me get that trunk for you."

Hermione looked up from struggling to push her school trunk through the door and saw the landlord coming toward her, a look of concern on his face. 

She gave a grateful smile and went back out to the sidewalk to retrieve her bag and the wicker basket containing an irritated Crookshanks. As she hefted both and headed for the door, she wondered how long they would remain sitting outside a place that wasn't even supposed to exist. She'd certainly had a difficult time convincing the Muggle taxi driver to stop here. He had looked bewildered when she told him to set the trunk down in front what appeared to be a shop specializing in ancient vinyl records, next to a shop of equally ancient books. In fact, he'd stared at her as if she were a spoiled and stubborn child, so Hermione had given him an excessive tip.

She was almost sixteen, after all, and well able to take care of herself.

The Leaky Cauldron was perfectly visible to her, of course. After a summer at home and away from the wizarding world, the shabby interior of the pub seemed like heaven.

"Miss Granger, is it?" Tom the landlord grinned his pleasant and toothless grin. "Aye, and a good thing you made a reservation. We does get crowded this time of year. Tomorrow'll be worse, 'course. The trunk'll be sent up to your room and I'll just go and get your key."

As he stumped off behind the bar to fetch the key, she looked around the public room. Witches and wizards in long robes and pointy hats occupied most of the tables. In one of the dark corners sat a loud party of goblins--guards from Gringotts having a pint at lunch perhaps. Few people her age were in evidence, though Tom was right that tomorrow, the day before the Hogwarts Express left Kings Cross, the pub and all of Diagon Alley would be full of students.

Over there in another dark corner there _was_ someone who looked familiar. Could it be? Hermione frowned and stared harder. That was definitely Lavender Brown wrapped in a passionate embrace with-- whom? The boy whose lips were planted on Lavender's was dark-haired and clearly not Seamus Finnigan. He and Lavender had been an item during their fifth year, with no hint that they wouldn't carry on into sixth year. 

None of my business, she told herself firmly. But, she did feel a little sorry for Seamus who seemed quite taken with Lavender. 

Flash! Flash! Hermione's thoughts were interrupted by a couple of bright bursts of light from over her left shoulder. She turned with a start, fearful of some impromptu duel or a charm cast drunkenly by one of the patrons. No, it was a camera, she decided as she turned to find the source of the light. 

The witch responsible for the flash sat at a table with a man and woman who were talking excitedly to her and pointing at the picture that her little camera had instantly produced. The witch's two-inch long scarlet finger nails caught Hermione's attention first, prompting a sharp stab of disgust mixed with anxiety in the pit of her stomach. With some horror, she recognized the witch wielding the camera, possibly the last person on Earth she wanted to see now--or ever.

Rita Skeeter glanced up at her for an instant, raising her heavily penciled eyebrows in what might have appeared to be a casual glance. But, Hermione detected a rather venomous glint behind the familiar jeweled spectacles.

"Number seven, Miss."

Hermione turned with a start, aware that her mouth had been hanging open. Tom stood behind her holding a large brass key. She fumbled with her bag and basket, shifting them awkwardly so that she could take the key, then fled upstairs to her room. She hoped that the pub was decidedly emptier by the time she came back downstairs.

~~~~~~~~~

"Don't stay out too late," she scolded Crookshanks as he sat poised on the windowsill, ready to leap out. He purred, rubbing his head on the side of the window frame, then gave her a quizzical glare.

"No, I won't forget to stop by the Magical Menagerie and get you some Mouse Munchies."

This seemed to content the cat, who made a satisfied yowl and then vanished. Hermione fussed with the window, making sure that it would stay open. She put his basket in the wardrobe and stood staring at nearly empty insides.

"How much to unpack?" she murmured to herself.

"Oh, not too much, I hope."

She peered into the wardrobe suspiciously, then laughed. A summer at her parents' house had almost made her forget that some mirrors answered back when you talked to them.

"Why's that?" she replied to the full length mirror hanging on the inside of the wardrobe door. 

"Let me tell you about the last person who had this room," began the mirror. "Stuffed the wardrobe full to bursting, he did, and kept a very smelly pair of shoes inside for days."

Smiling to herself, Hermione said, "Well, I shan't need to unpack my school robes, at least." They were all too short because she'd grown a few inches over the summer. She took a few smaller items out of the trunk and put them in the bureau, then started sifting through her books. 

This won't do, she thought, closing _The Romance of the Cauldron: Potions through the Ages_ with a snap. She couldn't stay in her room all afternoon. The shops in Diagon Alley would be closing soon and the main reason for coming up to London today had been to get a little shopping done before the arrival of her friends. She needed new robes for school, of course. Thus, Hermione had asked her parents for permission to come ahead a day early on her own, making her feel quite grown up. 

When Ron and Harry arrived the next day, there would be buying books and getting caught up on the summer's events; those two certainly wouldn't be interested in shopping for robes with her. And, there were dress robes to think about, too. With her birthday money, she wanted to buy herself something new; the old dress was short and getting a little tight. Hermione had grown out as well as up this summer and, although she wouldn't admit this to anyone, was pleased that she needed a new dress with a bit more room in the chest. Shopping for that was definitely something that she wanted to do on her own.

Her spirits improved as she came down the narrow stairs, daydreaming about what color dress she might find. Running nearly headlong into Lavender Brown in the dark, narrow corridor at the bottom of the stairs knocked her good mood apart, like the perfect roll of a bowling ball that sends all the pins flying. 

"Oh!" Lavender exclaimed, looking surprised but a trifle smug, probably due to the long arm of Thomas Willoughby, a Ravenclaw who'd graduated this past year, wrapped around her shoulder.

"Hello, Lavender...Thomas." Hermione recognized him now. He had a dark, brooding face that had made half the girls at school swoon over his starring performance in the Ravenclaw production of _Hamlet_. He nodded at her with a bored look and seemed to want to drag Lavender off somewhere.

"Well, I didn't expect to find anyone from our year here today," she replied. "Thomas works at Quality Quidditch Supplies, you know, and he's been helping me, er, choose a new broom."

Hermione could count on one hand the number of time she'd seen Lavender on a broom. Why, even Neville Longbottom could handle a broom better.

"Yes, I have a bit of shopping to do as well, new robes." Hermione began uncertainly, but her growing suspicion that the other girl's tryst would be an unpleasant surprise to a certain member of their house prompted her to say, "Diagon Alley will be awfully crowded tomorrow. I expect _loads of people_ from Gryffindor will be here. You probably wouldn't want to run into them, would you?"

Lavender tensed her shoulders and narrowed her eyes. While she pursed her lips and made to reply, Thomas toyed with the edge of her robe, then ran a finger along her neck in a very familiar way, one that made Hermione uncomfortable.

"Shopping for robes?" Lavender smiled sweetly. "A new look would suit you, something a bit more... fashionable than your usual. Sorry I don't have time to help you."

"Actually, I like shopping by myself," Hermione stammered as a hot blush crept up her neck. She was trying very hard not to think about those wandering fingers on Lavender's neck. What did it feel like to--? 

Although it probably wouldn't do any good, Hermione found herself saying, "If I do run into anyone from Gryffindor, shall I say that I saw you?"

"It's really none of your business, Hermione Granger," the other girl said and turned away, eyes toward the door. Thomas whispered something in her ear and she giggled. Lavender snaked her arm around his waist and, with a sly backward glance, sauntered through the Leaky Cauldron's back door.

_Right. What business is it of mine anyway?_ Hermione fumbled in her bag, pretending to look for something so that she didn't have to accompany the pair. They clearly found her company unwanted and she felt the same way about them.

"Minding your own business is a wise course, Miss Granger," drawled an acid voice behind her. Hermione whirled and came face to face with Rita Skeeter, who went on, "Best to concentrate on a new frock, instead of other people's affairs."

Hermione was finally tall enough to look straight through those jeweled eyeglasses and into the hard blue eyes. However, Rita Skeeter's hair -- more platinum blond than Hermione remembered, but with the same rigid and intricate curls -- towered over the her.

"Listening in on other people's conversations? That sort of thing can get you into trouble," replied a tight-lipped Hermione, determined not to be intimidated by anything about the infamous semi-retired journalist. She was dismayed at Rita Skeeter's appearance; the woman looked tanned and fit, artfully dressed in periwinkle blue robes accented with an intense fuschia paisley scarf at the neck. Hermione chided herself: did she expect that forcing Rita Skeeter to stop writing her slanderous muck for a year would turn her into a decrepit hag?

Now the woman flashed a polished and well made-up smile at her. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she said and opened her large crocodile skin handbag. She extracted a book that Hermione saw - much to her horror - bore the selfsame smile or grimace, depending on how you looked at it. 

'_Witch and Famous: The Rita Skeeter Story_?" she read incredulously as the smiling Rita on the cover waggled long scarlet fingernails at her.

"My autobiography," smirked the journalist and pushed the book at her. "I haven't been idle over the last year, have I? This is an advance copy, so you'll be one of the first at school to own it. Here, take it. I insist."

Hermione was stunned, torn between wanting to throw the book down and to pore over it to see who had been slandered - and how much truth Ms. Skeeter had decided to include. For several seconds, her mouth made little mewling noises without being able to form any words at all. Then, she looked up from the book and stared at Rita Skeeter through narrowed eyes.

"You said that you--if you've harmed any--"

"That'll do from you, Miss Granger," the woman hissed and wrapped her talon-like fingers around one of Hermione's arms. "I've kept my end of our bargain and I want no trouble from you in return, especially not now."

Hermione shook off the long sharp fingernails digging through the thin cotton of her blouse. _I'm not afraid of you_, she thought, yet something about the woman was decidedly unnerving. She pushed the tremor out of her voice with great effort and said, "If you'll excuse me, I have some shopping to do."

"Of course," Rita Skeeter nodded, giving the girl a careful appraisal before she turned on her heel and headed in the direction of the pub. She looked over her shoulder and called, "Pity they don't sell fashion sense in Diagon Alley."

~~~~~~~~~

Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, read the sign. Hermione spent little time looking in the window at the display of fall fashion (earth-tones seemed to be in), but pushed into the shop, causing an unseen bell to chime merrily. A squat and cheerful witch wearing tawny robes with a moss-green scarf (scarves seemed to be in, too) greeted her as she entered.

"Come for Hogwarts robes, dearie?" She looked Hermione over carefully. "Yes, let's get you out of those Muggle clothes and into something decent."

Hermione explained that she'd need several new robes for school and proceeded to try on a set. She stood on a stool as the witch folded the hem to get the length right while enchanted pins flew from the pincushion on her wrist into the fabric. The girl looked down at the head bobbing about the bottom of the robe for several minutes before speaking.

"I'd also like to get some new dress robes," she said, "because we have balls sometimes and my old ones are, er, old."

"Certainly," Madam Malkin said as she stood and walked around Hermione, eyeing the evenness of the hem. "Let's see what you fancy."

Several minutes later Hermione was wearing a long, full-skirted dress and standing in front of twin mirrors, one that showed the front and the other that showed the back at the same time. The dress, a pale eggplant color, was as low-cut in the front as Hermione dared and also had a shockingly open back.

"As for the color, my dear," Madam Malkin was saying as Hermione turned to catch herself at different angles in the mirror, "how would a more mauve tone suit you?" With a wave of her wand, she turned the dress a darker, redder color.

"Blue," said Hermione firmly. "Can I just have blue?"

"Robins egg? Sky? Navy? (Ugh, forget that.) Midnight? Periwinkle, even?"

"Mmmm. The sort of a blue like a clear sky right before dawn in springtime," she said, closing her eyes and trying to imagine the view from her dormitory window at Hogwarts.

"Very well," replied Madam Malkin, irritated perhaps by the unfashionableness of the color choice.

Hermione opened her eyes and gasped. It was exactly the color of blue she'd been imagining. The skirt swished wonderfully as she watched herself in the mirror. There was just one more little adjustment.

"Er, it seems a little loose here," she said and pointed vaguely at the neckline.

"A bit more ooomph in the bust? Certainly," Madam Malkin replied cheerfully, causing Hermione to wince. With a few skillfully placed pins, the witch had redefined the dress, adding some new curves that Hermione almost blushed to see. 

"That's fine," she said, nodding quickly. She rushed to get out of the dress and back into her jeans and blouse before she could change her mind.

Standing at the counter and paying for her purchases, Hermione felt quite pleased with herself. Choosing the dress had taken longer than she'd expected, she noticed as she checked her watch. There would just be time to get to the Magical Menagerie before it closed. 

"With all the alterations, it will take a bit of time -- shouldn't be more than ten minutes -- to get your order wrapped up. Do you mind waiting?"

"I have something else that I need to get before the shops close," Hermione said, not sure that she wanted to explain that treats for her cat were of the same importance as a new dress. You had to know Crookshanks to understand how this could be so. "Can you have them sent round to the Leaky Cauldron? I'm staying there."

That made her feel grown up.

"Of course, Miss...?"

"Granger. In room seven."

Behind Hermione the door of the shop opened. The bell chimed and Madam Malkin looked up from the parchment on which she'd been writing Hermione's name in large, flowing script. 

"Oh! Miss Skeeter!" exclaimed the witch, dropping her quill and hurrying around the counter.

Hermione turned more slowly, dreading another encounter as painful as the last. But, Rita Skeeter was on better behavior this time, perhaps because of the more public meeting place.

"Finished your shopping, have you?" she asked with all the sweetness of a meringue: mostly air with a hard crust baked on the outside. 

The interior of the shop seemed to emphasize Rita Skeeter's artfully arranged appearance. Hermione was all the more irritated with herself for falling victim to it, even momentarily. She took up her bag from the counter and smiled back. "No. A bit more to do, if you'll excuse me." Then she addressed Madam Malkin, "Thank you for all your help."

"A pleasure, dearie," replied the short, cheery witch. "And don't worry about a thing. I'll fix the robes just as you wanted and send them straight away."

Hermione ducked her head and made for the door. Behind her, she heard Madam Malkin saying to Rita Skeeter in a lower, more confidential voice, "That special order has come in, Miss Skeeter. If you'll just step into the back, you can--"

As the door closed, Hermione wondered briefly what a 'special order' might entail, intrigued by the tone of the shopkeeper's voice more than anything else. But, she forced herself to drop the matter and hurried off to the Magical Menagerie.

~~~~~~~~~

"Where are you, you silly cat?" Hermione called as she let herself into her room. She closed the door and set her purchases on the bed. After looking under the bed and on top of the wardrobe, she concluded that Crookshanks was still catting about his former haunts in Diagon Alley. She drew the curtains, but made sure that the window was still open. He'd show up when he was ready, yowling for treats, even if it was the middle of the night. 

The large paper-wrapped parcel from the robe shop had been waiting for her at the Leaky Cauldron, but she had not collected it until after dinner. Her meal in the dining room had been quiet; she'd only met a few other students, and no one that she knew particularly well. Of Lavender, there had been no sign, although Hermione had kept an eye out for her surreptitiously while reading _The Romance of the Cauldron_ over dinner. 

She was determined to know as much about potions as Professor Snape this year, if she could, and had applied herself to this task all summer. She'd also been giving Neville encouragement to do the same by owl, but was sure that he had not taken her advice.

Now, seated on her bed, she put aside thoughts of simmering cauldrons and lists of ingredients as she contemplated the brown paper package that lay before her. Inside, she discovered, were several similarly wrapped parcels, each with a red ribbon around it. She sifted through the ribboned packages, in a hurry to find the blue dress and to see how the final alterations had turned out. 

One of the packages seemed too small and light to contain a set of robes or a full length dress. Perhaps that had been why she chose it first. When she pulled the ribbon off, the paper unfolded like an exotic brown flower to reveal a bit of white satin... What was this? Hermione held the thing up trying to figure that out. 

Oh, she laughed to herself, it's a corset. Then, she blushed and realized just what kind of a corset it was. Not that she'd ever own such a thing, but one did see them in adverts and certain shop windows... and one couldn't help looking sometimes.

"For heaven's sake," Hermione said out loud, throwing it down on the bed. This was a mistake, of course. Someone else's purchases had been mixed up with her own. She quickly opened the other wrapped parcels and confirmed this. Everything else that she had bought was there: the heavenly blue dress and the black school robes.

A mistake. She'd send it back tomorrow, then.

She laid the shiny white corset across her lap, straightening it out and smoothing it with her fingers. _But, wouldn't it be fun to try it on?_

~~~~~~~~~

_To be continued..._


	2. Sensibility

Fashion Sensibiliy

**Fashion Sensibility**

  
  


**(Rated R for sexual content and themes,  
which will become apparent very, very soon.)**

Part 2. Sensibility

  
  


Hermione felt a chill. The room had also become darker as she'd sat on the bed, contemplating the parcels from Madam Malkin's. Perhaps a fire was in order. She rose, catching the satin garment before it slid off her lap and onto the floor. Laying it aside, she took out her wand and stood before the fireplace.

"_Incendio_," she murmured. 

A fire sprang to life. She laid her wand down on a small table nearby and then rubbed her hands together to warm them, lost in thought for some time.

"Oh, this is silly," Hermione said to the fire crackling merrily. There was no one else to hear her, after all. In spite of this, she checked that the door was locked, then crossed to the open window and tugged at the already closed curtains.

Now or never, she sighed to herself. Not that it was a chore. She definitely felt something thrilling -- an odd chill -- when she held the white satin corset up to her chest and stood in front of the mirror. OK. It seemed to be the right size, so why not give it a try?

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, taking twice as long as normal to undo them. But, Hermione wasn't the sort of person to back down once she'd decided to do something.

She ducked out of sight of the full length mirror on the wardrobe door once she had shed the Muggle clothing that had been so repellant to Madam Malkin. After taking a deep breath, she stepped into the tiny satin garment and pulled it up past her knees and thighs, then tugged it over her hips. 

The corset fit like a glove. Actually, it was tight, very tight, once the satin ribbon had laced and tied itself. Hermione had an inkling then that this might be an enchanted garment. She hoped she could get out of it without causing damage, else she'd have to explain in person when she returned it. The thought of that made her blush.

She giggled when she finally had the nerve to look at herself in the mirror. Nervously, she ran her hand down the shiny fabric, so smooth and... she didn't have words for the feeling.

"My goodness! That's quite a get-up!"

Hermione jumped and looked around as the mirror continued, "Sure it's big enough for you dearie?"

Try as she might, she could not pull the top up enough so that it entirely covered her (and this made her blush, too) breasts. The darker aureoles peeked out of the fringed ruffle like a shy sunrise and the lace rubbed against her nipples. Any moment, they might spring out and, even all alone in her room, that was an uncomfortably weird feeling.

"Really, something a tad larger would be nice, too, wouldn't it?"

She closed the wardrobe door, retreating (fleeing was more like it) from the mirror, and sat in the big stuffed armchair next to the fireplace, still tugging on the top of the corset. The bottom of the garment was tight, too, she noticed as she settled into the chair. The small strip of satin in the back chafed her buttocks and the silky fabric in the front pushed on her, making for an odd throbbing sensation.

She was uncomfortable in about five places at once and didn't quite know how to remedy any of it.

_What would Lavender say if she could see this?_ Hermione sat back, eyes closed, and wondered. The top of this thing, though, it felt as if... She squirmed and her breasts tried to escape once more, so she pushed them back inside... and thought of other fingers, of Thomas' fingers moving down Lavender's neck. From there, it was only... When they were alone, those two, did he touch her like this? 

Her breast had completely worked free of the corset and the lace tickled the back of her hand as she brushed her fingers over her nipple and thought about the boy's long fingers, reaching down and--

Flash! -- her eyes flew open in surprise and -- Flash! -- she was blinded by brilliant white light. Stunned, she could only gape as her vision returned and showed her a truly terrifying sight: 

Rita Skeeter stood not three feet away, holding her little camera and grinning as Crookshanks might, upon swallowing a small rodent he'd been toying with for hours.

Hermione opened her mouth, but nothing more than the beginnings of sentences came out. "Wha-- How'd y-- Why--"

"Cat got you tongue, Miss Granger?" 

The way that woman said her name made Hermione shiver. But, she didn't feel cold, far from it. A hot blush, painful in its intensity, began in her chest and crawled up her neck like a dragon roused from sleep. For a moment, she could do nothing but let it wash over her, then she sat up in the chair, gripping the arms and pushing herself back against the cushions.

"What gives you the-- How did you get in?"

"Get in? Oh, the usual way," Rita Skeeter said and opened the large crocodile skin handbag on her arm, dropping the camera inside. She wore a long black cloak trimmed with a dark fur collar. In firelight, the jewel-encrusted glasses glinted but the eyes behind them were hidden in shadow, making her face -- from penciled eyebrows to heavy, angular jaw -- look not quite right. Mixed with the expected hardness, there was excitement in the way her jaw twitched as she spoke.

"Oh, I'm not here to write a story, no. I came for a more private chat, a bit of girl-talk, you might say."

_A very bad dream. A nightmare. I've dozed off next to the fire_, Hermione thought, closing her eyes momentarily. _This can't be real..._

"That's quite fetching on you," remarked Rita Skeeter. "I'm rather pleased with my selection. Aren't you?"

Hermione's eyes flew open; the nightmare theory seemed less likely by the minute. The woman stood over her, now less than two feet away, clutching a photograph in her thick fingers. The two-inch scarlet fingernails obscured most of it, but not the shock on the face of the tiny, motionless girl in the picture.

"You planned this! You--you set me up," Hermione spluttered.

"I wouldn't be where I am today, if I missed opportunities." Rita Skeeter flashed a very satisfied grin. "I had forgotten how meddlesome you are, Miss Granger, until I heard your sanctimonious preaching this afternoon to that girl -- your classmate, I suppose. I've been very busy over the past year. Yes, I _have_ adhered to the terms you forced on me, but all that is over now. I start on a speaking tour to promote my autobiography next week. The book should do very well--"

"It's full of lies and half-truths," Hermione interrupted, unable to contain herself. "I did manage to force myself to look at it. How can you--"

"I write what people want -- no, expect -- to hear. Perhaps a little license is taken occasionally."

"License!" Hermione sat bolt upright in the chair, meeting Rita Skeeter's cold stare without flinching. "You don't even mention how you collect your muck, about your-- that you're an Animagus."

"No, I'm saving that for Volume Two," she replied, her jaw clenching in obvious irritation. "You see, I did register with the Ministry recently--" She grimaced. "--in case someone such as yourself decided to become annoying and tiresome about that."

"But, you've been an Animagus for years! It's obvious."

"Your word against mine, Miss Granger. Oh, you could make some trouble, I won't deny it. You're a Prefect, aren't you? Such a model student. Well, perhaps you wouldn't want all of Hogwarts to know about your preferences in, um, undergarments. Other questions might be raised...."

"Blackmail!"

"Call it what you like," Rita Skeeter chuckled and grotesque shadows, products of the flickering firelight, played across her face and her massive tower of blond curls. "But, I won't have you interfering, not with this book coming out. I'm also in some rather delicate negotiations at the moment for a contract to ghostwrite the autobiography of a _very_ high-up official in the Ministry. I'd prefer it if we could come to an understanding, you and I."

She pushed the photograph closer to Hermione, then pulled back as the girl made a reflexive grab for it.

"Tut-tut, Miss Granger," she smirked, holding the photograph high as Hermione leapt out of the chair.

She tried to snatch it a second time from Rita Skeeter's scarlet talons and faltered, suddenly feeling vulnerable: trapped in the wickedly tight corset even as it threatened to expose her in a very uncomfortable and embarrassing way. She stumbled and fell back against a little table next to the chair, sending whatever lay atop it to the floor. Amidst the sound of breaking glass -- some knick-knack for which she'd have to pay later -- she heard her wand clatter and roll on the hearthstone.

Hermione scrambled to reach the wand, while keeping one eye on Rita Skeeter who was rummaging in the large crocodile skin bag that dangled from the crook of her arm. It might have been comical, like a lady holding up the queue at the bus by interminably searching for change, except for the malicious frown on Rita Skeeter's face, amplified by the uncertain firelight. She took all this in as she dived along the rough hearthstone. Her fingers closed around her wand just as she heard the woman mutter something to herself.

"What? Oh, this will do."

As Hermione scrambled to her feet and raised her wand to start a stunning spell, she heard a sharp crack. She tensed, expecting a curse. A thin, black ribbon shot toward her, covering the distance between the two of them in an eyeblink.

"_Finite Incantatem_," Hermione managed to gasp, realizing too late that this wasn't a curse at all, but a braided leather rope that wrapped itself tightly around her wrist, accompanied by fiery pain lancing up her arm. 

She dropped the wand, her hand writhing in helpless agony, and felt a sharp tug. Then, a violent jerk forced her to her knees. As she struggled, the braided leather slithered up her arm, as if it were alive, as if it had been a real snake. She looked up to see Rita Skeeter holding the end of the leather strip by a black handle, highly polished and curiously shaped. The woman's face was suffused with a peculiar serenity that she didn't at first comprehend. 

"This--this whip," Hermione spat, for she recognized it now for what it was, "has an illegal enchantment on it. And you--" She struggled with her free hand to loosen the leather's magical grip on her arm.

"I think it's much improved," laughed Rita Skeeter as she hauled the girl roughly to her feet, pulling her closer. "Muggles are extremely fond of this sort of toy, but so crude about using it."

As Hermione continued to claw at the black braid, Rita Skeeter went on, "Perhaps you haven't seen my first book -- written under a pseudonym, it's true --_The Wizard's Exquisitely Complete Guide to Bondage and Discipline_. No? It was a big hit last Christmas season and the profits helped keep the wolves away from the door."

Hermione ceased struggling. Her heart pounded and her breath came in short, ragged gulps. She had only the vaguest notion of what Rita Skeeter was saying; the words themselves were dangerous and made her heart race even faster. She forced herself to meet the woman's eyes, although the look fixed there caused a violent quake inside her, totally unrelated to the pain from the whip that was lashed around her arm.

"Don't know what I'm talking about, Hermione?" she whispered, digging the nails of one hand into the girl's shoulder. "You might enjoy it, mmmm? Yes, perhaps you need a lesson..."

"What?" Hermione shook her head in an attempt to rouse herself from this odd torpor that seemed to engulf her (_This was a nightmare, after all_), brought on by a mixture of strange sensations and even stranger words.

"I don't know what you're--"

"Don't you? Many wizards find my lessons very stimulating and... enjoyable. Why, Cornelius Fudge is one of my biggest, um, fans, if you see what I mean."

Hermione did and felt sick to her stomach. At least, she thought that throbbing feeling was nausea. She swallowed hard and looked away. Why wouldn't her head clear? (_No dream could be this bizarre._)

Once again, the dream theory fell apart as Rita Skeeter raked long fingernails, gleaming scarlet in the firelight, across one of her breasts (_Please, please let this be a dream_) and expertly pinched her nipple. It proved exquisitely painful.

~~~~~~~~~

_A/N: Perhaps Hermione should have squashed Rita at the end of GoF and saved herself a lot of bother. Of course, that would have removed the premise for this little tale... which will reach its conclusion in the next part._

_Stay tuned._

_~CLS_


	3. 

Fashion Sensibiliy

**Fashion Sensibility**

  
  


**(The conclusion of this R-rated tale.)**

Part 3. Sense

Paralysis. Hermione's right arm throbbed because of the leather thong wrapped from wrist to elbow. She felt little else, save the pull as she moved closer to--

--Rita Skeeter, her face grotesquely gilded in firelight and wearing a serene smile that now made perfect, horrifying sense.

Why couldn't she move? What spell made her left arm hang uselessly at her side? And, why could she no longer feel her legs? Her head floated, disconnected, while her hips and those non-existent legs seemed a thousand miles away.

She was at war with herself. No, that made it seem too orderly, too deliberate. Sensations sloshed inside her like flotsam from a shipwreck bobbing on the waves, then sinking out of sight. Horror, fascination, and... other feelings, all surged within her. She was afraid even to give a name to some of those feelings, lest she be sucked into the emotional undertow.

Rita Skeeter trailed scarlet-taloned fingernails across one of Hermione's breasts, freeing it from the tight corset. Painful, yes, but she experienced flutterings of other sensations below the pain, robbing her of will and thought so that all she could do was watch as the fingers flexed, then raked her skin lightly. 

"Give it a try, mmmm?. You might be surprised." Rita almost purred as her fingers stroked Hermione's shoulder and then pushed her down in a gentle, but insistent way.

And Hermione's legs buckled. _Traitors! How can you fail me?_

No answer, except for that insistent and unnamed throbbing.

"Ah," Rita said, drawing the sound out so that it encompassed both satisfaction and anticipation. She gave the enchanted whip the smallest of jerks and the leather began to slither down Hermione's arm, withdrawing on command from its mistress.

_No..._

Hermione's knees hit the floor and she felt the jolt of the hard wood. The shock roused her.

_No._

The snakelike braid slid over her wrist, almost gone, as it returned to--

_NO._

Soon it would be gone, this thin black thong, but would it return?

_NO!!_

Hermione clenched her hands and choked as if she'd forgotten to breathe and only just remembered how once again. Her fist closed on the leather of the whip. With a desperation that surprised her she yanked the braid and stood up, pushing Rita Skeeter backward so violently that she let go of the whip handle in surprise. The girl snatched and caught it, blind to everything else in the room except the woman sprawled on the floor reaching for her handbag.

_Her wand. No, she mustn't--_

Rita Skeeter, no longer smiling but grim, pulled out her wand and tried to get to her feet amidst a swirl of black robes. Hermione's hand closed on the whip's handle. She wouldn't let her rise. She _would_ make her stop.

Crack!

The whip tore through the black robes, throwing a shower of red sparks in its wake. Stunned, the woman stopped moving. But, then she smiled and made to rise again, her eyes fixed on the girl standing above her.

Crack!

Hermione struck out again, half-blinded by some monster pounding her insides like a caged beast slamming into prison bars. The whip slashed across Rita Skeeter's shoulder, leaving torn fabric and another shower of sparks its wake. 

A strange light glinted in her eyes as she laughed, "Think you can break me, Hermione?"

"Stop it!" Hermione pushed the words out from somewhere deep in her chest. The roiling confusion that burned within her an instant before coalesced into an icy cold resolve, a desire to take up the challenge, to force the woman to stop... _Leave me in peace! I won't have you--_

Crack!

The loud snap of the whip and the sizzle of red sparks caught Hermione by surprise as the lash struck Rita Skeeter on the cheek, opening a long crimson gash down one side of her face.

_No._ Hermione forced herself to look away, trying to regain a toehold in some other place, a reality that did not include what lay before her. Her eyes cast about the floor as she took in lungfuls of air like a swimmer who's been under water for too long. Feeling came back to her legs and arms. And she saw her wand.

She dropped the whip as if it had suddenly begun to glow white-hot and scrambled to pick up the wand. Almost without thinking, Hermione caused cords to shoot out and wrap around Rita, binding her arms tightly against her chest. She caught her breath, feeling some triumph in standing as she did, wand in hand, while the woman struggled at her feet.

"Of course. I should have seen it. Lovely," Rita said, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "But you really should read my book on the more... elegant use of ropes and bindings."

_Why is she looking at me like that?_ Hermione wondered wildly, clenching her wand tightly enough that her fingernails cut painfully into her palm. Her heart thudded, the only sensation she felt as her world seemed to have contracted to the pounding in her chest and Rita's probing stare. 

"Go on..." 

A single heartbeat can seem like a year, a decade, a century sometimes. Hermione drew a deep breath and saw herself balanced on the edge of sharp precipice, knowing the choices even though she did not fully understand them.

"Get out," she said softly, and with a swift downward stroke of her wand she dissolved the cords binding Rita Skeeter.

"Don't want to play, Miss Granger? Too bad. You'd enjoy it. I can tell. I can _always_ tell." The woman slowly got to her feet, hauling her handbag with her. She reached into it and pulled out a handkerchief that she dabbed on her cheek.

"A bit crude, I'll admit. You really must let show you a few..."

"Stop it!" Hermione cried. "Haven't you done enough damage? Just get out of here!"

"Perhaps you're right." A smile of delight inched its way across Rita Skeeter's face, now lopsided because of the gash running down one cheek. She replaced the handkerchief and held up the photograph once more.

Hermione started, having forgotten about its existence, as if it had been years since she had last seen it. Who was that girl in the picture? Someone different, someone innocent of... of what she ached to forget, longed to erase from memory.

"I shall keep this little memento of our... chat. If you want it, you can come and fetch it." She dropped the picture into her handbag and closed it with a loud snap. "But, keep the toy. You will find, my dear, that there are boys of your acquaintance who may be quite interested in what you--"

"I don't want it. Take it and--"

Rita Skeeter, who had slowly been raising her wand as she talked, Disapparated with a pop just as Hermione kicked the whip toward her. It clattered into a bedpost and partially disappeared under the bed, peeking out from under the edge of the quilt like a garden snake from under a bush.

Thus, there was no one left in the room to hear Hermione's shriek of frustration, relief, and despair as she tore off the hated satin corset and threw it into the fire.

When Crookshanks returned hours later, he found her sitting on the floor before the fireplace, wrapped in the quilt that she'd dragged off the bed. She looked around, startled, as the he rubbed his head against her side and yowled.

"Where have you been? Where?" Hermione scolded as she took the cat in her arms. He squirmed, then shook his head as hot tears splashed his fur.

"Meow," said Crookshanks and purred.

~~~~~~~~~

Hermione sat on the bed, her fingers playing over the polished handle of the curious black object that lay beside her. Crookshanks rubbed her ankles insistently, but she paid him no attention.

Tap-tap-tap. A hesitant knock on the door. She pulled her dressing gown close across her chest, as if to hide.

"Hermione? It's me, Ron."

Silence. Hermione didn't know what to say, so she stared at her knees instead, smoothing the dressing gown, although it was already pulled tautly across her lap.

"Hermione? I want to--"

"If you're looking for your Quidditch book, you left it under your chair at dinner." Hermione looked up and fussed at the door, which stared back at her blankly. Must she find every little lost thing for him?

"No, it's not that--but thanks. I didn't know it had gone missing." Ron paused, then pitched his voice lower in a hoarse whisper. "You feeling okay, Hermione? Anything wrong?"

"Fine. I'm fine." She called back, feeling anything but fine.

"It was the dungbomb, right? We shouldn't have--"

"Oh, for heaven's sake." She got up and opened the door on a concerned but sheepish Ron Weasley. "Let's not conduct our conversation in public. Er, come in."

She sat on the bed and returned to smoothing the dressing gown over her knees. Ron approached her, shifting about from one foot to the next, finally deciding to sit on the bed, too. He did so gingerly, as if any movement might make the whole thing blow up. 

"I-er-that is, Harry and I were worried that you... didn't seem yourself today. Is everything okay?"

"What?" Hermione looked up at him briefly and then back down, not having realized that her behavior was odd until now. "I had a--I didn't sleep well last night and I'm a little tired, that's all."

"Uh. Oh." Ron stared at the familiar bushy brown hair cascading toward her lap, and tried to think of something to say. "This is going to be a great year at school. You know, we picked up a new Chaser for the team last year and Maxwell's a second year and can play now. And, er, you're going to be a Prefect and all." He cast around the room, trying to think of something else, and his eye lit on the black object lying on Hermione's bed, just behind her. "Hey, what is that? Isn't that a--"

She turned, an intense and painful blush coloring her cheeks and chest, and pushed the black handle and braided leather under a pillow and out of his sight, then felt more embarrassed for having reacted that way.

"That's.... oh, nothing," she mumbled into her lap again.

After a minute of silence that seemed to stretch into hours, Ron spoke again, traces of concern and confusion in his voice, "Are you sure you're okay?" He paused, not for so long this time, before putting a hand on her shoulder as if she were a statue about to crumble at any second. "Hermione...?"

She took a deep breath, then picked up her head and looked into his eyes. _Oh, it was there!_ She had an inkling of what Rita had been talking about and bitterly wished that she didn't.

"You naughty thing, where have you been?" She stood abruptly and picked up Crookshanks, who mewed in surprise when she squeezed him rather tightly.

Hermione sighed and moved toward the door, her face half-buried in the rumbling mass of ginger fur.

"Some other time, Ron....You'd better go now. I'll--I'll see you tomorrow."

_~~~~~~ _

The fire had burned out hours ago, but she hardly noticed and couldn't be bothered to re-light it, huddled under the quilt and staring blankly into the hearth. By this time, Crookshanks knew better than to pester her for attention. He curled up on the bed, dreaming his cat-dreams of crunching small furry things, while his mistress sat unmoving, as if in another country.

_~~~~~ ~~~~~~_

_Author's Note:_

_This started out as an odd little idea for a slash fic, but...   
Hermione refused to cooperate (although Mistress Rita was more than willing). Since I can't ask characters to act, well, out of character just to satisfy my idle curiosity, the story took another turn into the darker country of how people deal with the knowledge of what lurks inside them. _

_It wasn't easy to write this (and perhaps it wasn't easy to read). I owe many, many thanks to Amy, Dave, Hyphen, Matt, and Mio for reading, discussing, and generally putting up with my verbal hand-wringing during this whole enterprise._

_And, with apologies to MB, who will probably never read this, but if she does, I'm sure to be spanked._

_Do tell me what you think, either by review or e-mail!_

_~ CLS   
([lamia_borgheza@mindspring.com][1])_

   [1]: mailto:(lamia_borgheza@mindspring.com)



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